Voices
by Marvy
Summary: Story of Amell - Duncan never made it to the Tower to recruit her. Thrown into Aeonar for her part in Jowan's plot, this is the story of how she finds herself outside of the walls without ever truly escaping. She flees to Kirkwall to find a family she hopes exists and runs into someone that she definitely shouldn't. Companion piece to Two Halves and Of Lyrium and Stone.


**A/N**: This is a part of the _The Double-Sided Coin_ universe. I know both of their names are Beatrice, it was intentional. If you read this before, the end has changed.

**Note**: Bold is Beatrice, italics is Desire, underline is Rage. You'll understand when you read it.

**Disclaimer**: Everything's BioWare's, but I did try to put my own spin to the demon thing, Beatrice, and Aeonar.

* * *

The screaming, the crying, the noise.

It was hurting her ears as she sat, unbound, in her cell.

'Cell' was, perhaps, too nice a word. The room, if it could be called such, in which Beatrice Amell sat was barely large enough for her to stretch her legs when she sat upon the hard ground. Her cot, which was barely more than scratchy blankets on the stone floor, lay parallel to her body. There was enough room in the tiny space for her to sit beside it, although if she moved her hand much from where it was it would touch the unfortunate excuse for a mattress. At first, she had tried to make her 'bed' to keep some semblance of life in her otherwise dismal existence. Now, nearly half a year since she had been brought to Aeonar, the blanket lay in a heap in the middle of the mattress where she had left it once she roused.

Most of the prisoners were allowed to leave their cells once daily, for Chantry teachings followed by enough food to keep them alive, if only barely. There were not many of them, perhaps few enough to count on both hands. At least, that was how many Beatrice had seen. Most of them were older and had obviously been there for a while. Probably all were innocent of the crimes they had been accused of committing, at least Beatrice thought so. She knew Lily was, and herself as well. The worst they had done was trust the wrong man.

There had been a time, upon her arrival and for some time after, that Beatrice chose to blame Jowan for her current state of affairs. Her frustration – not anger, rarely if ever anger – had waned with time.

At the first whispers of the demons, her mind had become preoccupied with things other than why or how. It was now mostly a consistent loop of Threnodies 5 or a few other verses of the Chant of Light that Beatrice cared to remember. She felt herself slipping into something not unlike madness and did all that she could to pull herself out of it again, lest she succumb to the voices that plagued her mind. It was once difficult to sleep for all of the noise, both in her head and in the halls. For as thick as the stone walls were, they did little to block out the noise. Or perhaps the screaming was her own now.

When the invaders first came into her mind, she was afraid. She was terrified she was the person that the Knight-Commander had accused her of being. She checked her wrists every day, to remind herself that a knife had never touched the skin there. To convince herself that none ever would, too.

Several clicks and a heavy thud later, her Templar opened the massive door. The clink of his armored boots shuffled to a stop not far from her and a gruff, "Up," was her hello.

With weak arms and legs, Beatrice wobbled to a standing position and breathed heavily with the effort. She had, at one point, been a vibrant young woman. Now, as she stood before the man from the far south (there had been a moment in time when he offered this much), her entire body quaked with the movement and her skin was drawn taught over her bones. Her hair was matted, for the cold baths they offered monthly helped little. Her face was bloodied and bruised from the beatings that the Maker prescribed, her eyes downcast as she approached the Templar and held out her wrists for the shackles he could clasp them in. 'You don't need your hands apart to pray', they said. 'And you will learn to eat without cutlery or freedom.'

The Templar, whose name was Arvel, grabbed the chain that held the cuffs together and pulled Beatrice out of the cell. It was a daily routine they had fallen into. Sometimes Arvel was kind and walked a little slower. Today, however, he seemed agitated and so jerked her along to the make-shift Chantry that had been installed in what must have once been a grand hall. Beatrice's bare feet, which had once been soft and pale, were now torn, calloused, and bloody as she tripped along the uneven stone floor.

It was the same today as it was yesterday, as it would be tomorrow. As it would be until the day she died.

* * *

Beatrice had been pretty, once. Or at least, she had thought so. It had not ever been something upon which she would dwell with much frequency or for overlong. She thought, as she scrubbed her face in the river at her knees, about how her mother would be ashamed and so very worried. If she had a mother. Well, of course she had a mother; it was more if her mother cared. Or knew where she was, or who she was, or anything about her at all.

Sighing, Beatrice sat back on her heels and wiped her face on the marginally cleaner sleeve of her tattered shirt. It wouldn't matter, though. Pride had no place in the wild. It was now nearly a year since her escape from the Circle Tower and subsequently the mage prison, she could breathe. The darkspawn, for whatever reason, did not come after her in the night. She could dare to light a fire for long enough to get warm and dry her clothes, as well as cook a meager meal.

It was a relief, to eat. She had long-since learned how to capture a rabbit without it exploding and had honed her lightening bolts to strike a bird from the sky without feathers raining down on her. Her glyphs had improved out of necessity – while she had not been set upon by large groups of darkspawn, more than two would have bested her if she had not been able to narrow the playing field so to speak.

She had learned to steal a little, although it was easy when people were running away from the evils of mankind embodied. She was lucky she had not died, in truth; while life in the Circle had trained her to live without pleasantries or companionship, it had certainly not given her the tools she needed to survive completely on her own.

Pressing her hands into the soft, leaf-covered ground of the bank, Beatrice pushed herself to stand. Her limbs were weak with exertion and malnutrition from the last several months, but they held her up with minor disagreement.

She pushed herself on thin, muscled legs half-exposed from the haggard remains of her stolen breeches. Her shoes were falling apart; they were never meant for this sort of walking. She would have to find another pair. She had no clue, unfortunately, where she was.

Slowly, although the time elapsing gave her little chance to do anything as she was struck dumb by the appearance of it all, the ground began to swell up beneath her. It didn't stop. Reaching behind her back, she found that her staff was nowhere to be felt or seen. The ground continued its assault, moving in waves to engulf her in a breathtakingly slow manner.

It was a dream. Beatrice knocked her head back, the movement painful but familiar as her skull made a dull thud against the stone wall.

Aeonar.

Her breath caught in her throat and had she the water in her body to cry, she likely would have. It had been several months since she had aided Jowan in his escape attempt and only a few days later she was being carted across Ferelden. She had offered herself up as a sacrificial lamb; first, she had offered to help the lovebirds and then she had thrown herself under the carriage to try and save Lily.

It didn't work, though. She and Lily were carted off together, bumping along uncomfortably in the tiny wagon. Beatrice did not know about the other girl, but she knew that her head was covered in something dark. Apparently Aeonar was very, very secret.

Jussssttt let me innnn.

Beatrice's bony fingers clutched at her dirty, matted hair and she gritted her teeth. Words swam in her head. It seemed like they never stopped, like the call was always coming. The pace of her breathing increased and she dug broken nails into her scalp, pressing her spine along the cold stone behind her.

I can save you, pet.

Get out of my head.

Let me into your heart.

"...Please," she croaked, throwing her hands to the ground. "Please," she breathed, pressing the heels of her palms into her closed eyes. "Please, Maker, just let it end," she hiccuped, pulling her knees up to her chest as she wrapped thin, shaking arms around her legs.

Your Maker is not here. But I am, sweet thing. Oh you precious, poor little thing. Just let me in and I can take all of your pain away. I can give you everything you have ever wanted. Your mother, that boy...Everything, child.

Beatrice let out a scream of rage and threw her hands from her, slamming her fists to the stones on either side of her. It sounded as though she had cracked something, or maybe it was the unintentional and pathetic sizzle of lightening that dared to appear.

We can kill them all-

What appeared to be lightening flashed through her eyes and her nails broke further as she scratched them into the stone. Closing her eyes tightly, she tried desperately to even out her breathing.

"Beatrice? Is that you?" A voice hissed from somewhere, somewhere she couldn't see. Opening her eyes wider, she searched the room for any sign of anyone.

"Begone, demon! I have not the strength..."

"Bea, don't be ridiculous. It's me, Anders," the voice was quiet, hurried.

When Beatrice raised her eyes again, there he was. In her cell. The door. It was wide open. There was little light, but it was enough to hurt her eyes.

"And-? But...Anders?! How...how can it be? Wait...what are you doing here?" Her voice raised as he approached her, hand tugging gently at her wrist.

"I am trying to get you out of here, if you would shut up long enough to come along."

Well, if he was a demon, at least it would be over. The warmth of his hand on her bony wrist did not feel like that of a demon. It was a familiar lyruim hum that passed between them, despite how the Templars tried to drain them. Aeonar was a terrible choice for a mage prison, full of Veil tears. The demons, they were rampant. Even in those moments, as she and Anders maneuvered their way through the halls towards the sunlight, they beat against the wall she had built in her mind.

There were several close calls and it took longer than it should have to get the two of them out of it, but it was miraculous that they made it at all. Beatrice suffered quite a swing to her arm, which she and Anders tied a piece of his less-filthy robes around to keep the blood from leaving a trail. They had managed to scavenge a few things from the Templars they either knocked out or killed, all three of them. Anders, being the brilliant sod he was (Beatrice was beginning to remember), had created a diversion (what, she still didn't know) somewhere else in the prison which helped to lessen their resistance.

The sun burned but in the best possible way. He was gone again. Maybe it hadn't been him, after all. Maybe she had imagined it all. But, she thought she was out. And if the actual mechanics of the escape weren't real, at least the result was. She did not have the time to stop, to talk, to thank the Maker, to cry. Instead, despite the screaming of her limbs and lungs, Beatrice stopped her sobs and took off in a run without a thought to where she might go.


End file.
